


Guilty Conscience

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2017 [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Accident, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt, Introspection, Self-Loathing, Tim feels REALLY bad okay, Tim is a terrible brother, but he feels really bad about it, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 04:18:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12740868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: This is all his fault. He's the bad guy here. Sympathy is the last thing he deserves.





	Guilty Conscience

**Author's Note:**

> For the “accident” square on my hurt/comfort bingo card. Please don’t think too hard about how this would fit into canon because I really don’t know.

_ “Mr Wayne, your son has just been admitted to Gotham General Hospital.” _

\--

The waiting room is cold. He curls his fingers inside his hoodie sleeves and shoves his hands under his armpits. It doesn't do anything to thaw the ice in his veins. Maybe it's not the room that's cold. Maybe it's his heart. Cold and dark and shrivelled and capable of being a complete and utter arsehole.

A nurse glances over at him, something like sympathy curling her lips. It makes his stomach churn because  _ he doesn't deserve that sympathy _ . This is all his fault. He's the bad guy here. Sympathy is the last thing he deserves. 

\--

_ “Which son?” _

\--

Someone hands him a clipboard. He stares at it blankly. The only part he could fill out with any confidence is “name”. He doesn't think the kid has any allergies but he doesn't want to say no  _ just in case _ . It would be just his luck that he's deathly allergic to morphine or something and he fucks this whole situation up even more by putting nothing.

Like this situation can get much worse. It doesn't matter how much guilt Tim is drowning himself in, Bruce and Dick and  _ everyone _ are sure to pile more on. And he can't even protests because as much as it was an accident, a part of him is sure it also wasn't. He meant to do it, he just didn't mean for it to play out the way it did. But Murphy’s Law must really hate his life because it’s all gone so wrong.

\--

_ “Damian. There was some kind of accident at home, his brother called the ambulance.” _

\--

He stares at a mark on the tile near his left sneaker and doesn't blink. His eyes are hot and itchy but every time he blinks, he sees what he did. The unnatural angle of Damian's arm, the blood gushing down his face, his neck, his chest, staining his shirt purple and the hardwood floor an ugly red-brown. The  _ stillness _ . God, for a second he'd thought-

He bites his lip so hard it splits. Blood dribbles down his chin unnoticed. It's nothing compared to what's already on his hands.

Damian hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound, and Tim had thought he was  _ dead. _ A wave of cold had washed over him and it hasn't gone away. Because he still hates the brat but he doesn't want him dead. He thinks that maybe he didn't realise that until the moment he thought he was. It's a thought that tastes like bile and sounds like the  _ thump-thump-thump _ of a body rolling down the stairs.

\--

_ “How serious is it?” _

\--

He hadn't known what to do. Had half dialled Dick’s number before he'd remembered his oldest brother was in New York. He wouldn't be able to do anything except tell Tim not to panic. And it had been too late for that because his thoughts had been scrambled and his breathing rapid and he'd been well and truly panicking.

_ Alfred _ , he'd thought, because Alfred fixes everything. But Alfred wasn't home. Nobody was home except Tim and Damian. A disaster in the making.

Made. A disaster made. 

Tim really fucked up this time.

He'd called 911 eventually. It was probably only forty seconds, maybe a minute, after Damian had hit the floor with a sick thud, but it had felt like eons. He can't remember what he told the operator, but whatever it was it must have been something right because they'd sent an ambulance. And now they're here. Gotham General’s paediatric emergency department.

It had been that bit which really struck home what Tim had done.  _ Paediatric _ . Because he forgets sometimes that Damian may act bigger and better than all of them but he's still just a child. An incredibly aggravating, hyper-confident, exceptionally skilled child, but still just a child.

And yet Tim had been the one who’d acted like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Damian’s words had sliced through his skin like claws and plunged into his heart and Tim had lost his temper. Not as famous as Dick’s temper, but sure to be remembered for this.

\--

_ “The extent of his injuries are still being evaluation, but the doctor is concerned about organ damage. We need your permission to operate, Mr Wayne.” _

\--

Another nurse pauses in front of him. Her voice sounds like it's coming through a tunnel when she asks if he's alright. His own voice sounds wooden when he replies that he's fine. He's not the one who almost died. Could, potentially, still die. Maybe. He doesn't know; the hospital staff won't tell him anything.

_ He almost killed you once, _ a voice in his head whispers. Tim tells it to  _ shut up  _ because he's supposed to be Robin, a pillar of justice, a beacon of hope for the city. He's not supposed to want an eye for an eye. He's not supposed to get into fights with kids and feel vicious satisfaction when he comes out on top.

_ He started it _ , the voice argues. Tim sinks his fingers into his hair and twists until it hurts. He doesn't need to think too hard to imagine Alfred telling him it doesn't matter who started it. He should have found a better way to finish it. 

\--

_ “Do it. Do whatever you need to, I’m on my way.” _

\--

Bruce sits down beside him. Tim doesn't lift his gaze from his shoes. 

“It's my fault.”

Bruce doesn't ask why. He puts a hand, heavy and warm, on Tim’s shoulder. Says, “We’ll talk about it when we get home.”

Tim shakes his head frantically. He can't go  _ home _ , they can't just  _ talk _ about this. Doesn't Bruce understand what he did? 

“I pushed him.” His voice is hoarse, a whisper. His throats aches. “We were on the stairs and he- he just hit a nerve and I  _ snapped _ .” He swallows around the lump that  _ it was an accident  _ forms behind his sternum. It's growing and spreading, clawing at his heart and coiling around his throat. Shredding and suffocating.

Bruce's hand shifts to the back of Tim’s neck and squeezes. Still heavy, still warm. Inexplicably gentle. And Tim wants to curl into a ball and cry because  _ he doesn't deserve it  _ and  _ he didn't mean to _ but he was just so  _ angry _ and he just wanted Damian to understand how much it  _ hurt _ .

He'd thought the brat would catch himself, pull off one of those fancy flips or rolls he's so proud of being better than Tim at. He hadn't thought he'd actually fall. That his head would bounce off the steps and his body would tumble over and over until he reached the bottom.

“We’ll talk about it when we get home,” Bruce says again. There's an edge to it this time, though, one that conjures memories of Robin getting in trouble on patrol. It's a tone that means there will be justice, punishment, atonement for sins. 

It shouldn't make Tim feel better but it does. He's not used to leaving his interactions (always quarrelsome, often violent) with Damian feeling guilty. He's not used to feeling in the wrong, wanting to apologise, accepting the consequences. Usually he's not the one at fault. Well, the  _ only _ one at fault.

This time he fucked up. Badly. And he deserves whatever punishment he’s given. He’d prided himself on being above the violence Damian had attacked him with that first time (and several times since). But he isn’t. He can lie to himself as much as he wants, but he has no higher ground. He’s just as bad. Worse, even, because Damian is just a  _ kid _ . Tim is supposed to know better, he’s supposed to be able to control himself, to be mature and responsible and not get into fights with preteens, whether they’re baby assassins or not.

“I’m sorry,” he says to his shoes. Maybe by the time they’re allowed to see Damian he’ll have worked up the nerve to say it to his face.

“I know,” Bruce says. 

But they both know that doesn’t make it any better. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com).


End file.
